Brain Drain Blog

Archive for the ‘Daily Drivel’ Category

Here comes the rain again
Falling on my head like a memory
Falling on my head like a new emotion
-Annie Lennox, David Stewart

I haven’t seen the weather forecast yet, but I can see out the window and across the valley.?Call me old fashioned, but this serves better than television. Distant memory reminds me that when the underside of tree leaves are revealed en mass that a new pressure system is moving through, a very certain indication of rain. Oh, and look at that. Downpour. Memory serves correct.

Cat’s Eye Exterminators should be here at?any moment to murder?our colony of?carpenter bees. The ravaging weather seems fitting. It’s a sad day when these beautiful, physically harmless,?cartoon-like creatures must be destroyed. But alas, they must… before our house is reduced to a pile of sawdust.

We live in a log home where the newest decor includes a set of five egg galleries. This is?in addition to the reactivation of last year’s initial?three. I have since learned that the adults return annually, bringing?their?successive generations along for the ride. Read: “exponential increase in damage year after year.”

Once our logs are penetrated, we can’t simply rent a crane, lift off the roof and pop a new log in. Thankfully, just the mouldings have been breached. Neatly?chewed gallery entrances, complete with a?90 degree turn into a four foot tunnel, are slowly being filled with the reproduction of next year’s carpenter bee labor. Essentially, it’s us or them. Since we have no intention of reproducing, the?odds are not in our favor.

The cost of war is high. Nearly $300?buys us one tour of duty from the Cat’s Eye?brigade. Napalm included. The Shock and Awe Campaign recommends four additional strikes?at $85 each. If that doesn’t make the bees retreat, next year’s Cat’s Eye battalions are on the house.?They mean that literally.

It’s 7:15. The first strike was to take place at 7:00. Our?troops are probably detained by the weather. Or this could be a ploy?to lull the bees into a false sense of security, you know,?in the event that?they tapped in near the phone line and?overheard?our?strategy. I can’t speculate out loud for fear of tipping off the enemy. Either way, the end is near.

It’s a sad, sad, sad day.

Mother Nature went all rock and roll on us yesterday. At about 4:00, she turned off the sun, kicked her wind machine into high gear, and threw sheets of driving rain and hail into the mix. Illuminating her concoction, she?split the dark sky?with the white hot glow of?lightning bolts strobing clear across Rensselaer County. A resounding, thunderous bass shook the foundations of earth, structure and soul.

This morning the sun bathes the earth with little apology, illuminating the moshed and mangled casualties of trees and wires. It’s been 18 hours since we’ve had power. Without power, we have no water. With no water, there is no flushing. Last night’s dinner? Mexican. This, by far, has been our biggest challenge.

At the moment, I’m sitting at Slow Jed’s Mud House. I came here for my morning coffee, the cleanest bathroom within 15 miles, and internet access. I don’t think I fared as well as my husband. He drove 45 minutes to shower at his brother’s before work, but he has internet access?with air conditioning. I am still dirty… in public… with wireless?down. In fact, access is down at every local coffee shop. I know. I just called.

As much as we are hindered by our reliance on technology at its time of failure, it’s interesting how well we (or should I say “the animals”)?adapt. No alarm clock? That’s okay. Kringle, our cat, jumped on the bed at 7:00, meowing his displeasure at the lacking functionality of his auto-feeder. Once we submitted to his breakfast?request, the whole of the animal kingdom took advantage of our powerlessness. Kringle was decadently served by hand?as Bill?hovered to clean out every last kibble that Kringle left behind.

I suppose the musings of a takeover began last night.?For us humans, using a lighter to ignite the electronic-start gas stove was brilliant. Making Mexican?without being able?to wash the dishes? This?was good only for the mouse who has a thing for cheese and sour cream… and for the cat who likes mice. For us, eating the Ben and Jerry’s before it melted was a good thing. Being unable to rinse the residue of dairy from the container? Not so good… unless you’re Bill the Dog. This morning he stole?the empty pint to shred and?savor in the yard. Fortunately, I was able to block that maneuver just as Bill reached the dog door, and this was accomplished without the aid of morning coffee.

Joy! Internet access has just been restored to Jed’s!

Does this offer hope for home? I just called the answering machine… which still won’t pick up. It’s not looking good. If?power?isn’t restored?by tomorrow, we’ll have to rush in a Port-A-Potty for the 29 people coming to our house party.

Wish us all luck.

For now, I’m about to be served?a grilled veggie panini?and the live music is starting.?This is?not a bad way to spend the afternoon.

?PS: After filling the freezer and fridge for tomorrow’s party, we noticed that the things we bought were melting. Calling in a repair man yesterday morning, he saved both?the day and the food by replacing a failing defroster unit. We thought we were in the clear until lightening struck far more than twice. With a projected time of 3:30 for our power restoration, a full 24 hours from when it went out, I think we lost all our food anyway.

It’s a glorious summer vacation filled with already profuse blooms. We have three nests on the house, have been visited by?our bear,?and a rock wall?is slowly but surely materializing?around the entire length of our driveway thanks to my two very rough and beaten hands.?

Still, with this wonderful flurry of spring activity, the brain doesn’t have an off switch. Listening to Car Talk on Sunday’s leisurely?drive had me thinking about?theory?as Ray posed?this week’s puzzler:

In 1951, when I was 10, our folks told me that Aunt Bertha would not be coming for Christmas …. Before the week was out she was dead. The county medical examiner of course had to list a cause of death on her death certificate. Now I can’t be 100% sure, but I think that Aunt Bertha could very well have been the last person in the U.S. to die of, and have this listed as his or her official cause of death. There were many Americans who died of the same thing in 1951, and before, but none after. The question is, what did Aunt Bertha die of?

The answer?

RAY: Aunt Bertha died of a rare disease called? old age. Starting in 1952, the Bureau of Health Statistics which is part of the CDC, decided that you couldn’t just die of old age, you had to have a reason, like you fell on your knitting needles, got hit by a bread truck, or something like that. I think they listed 130 official reasons for death … They wanted everyone to be pigeon-holed. So Aunt Bertha, because she died a week after Christmas (She could have died like at 11:59 on New Year’s Eve) could have been the last person in 1951 to die of old age.

TOM: What do you do, pick something out of a hat?

RAY: Yeah. In fact when you’re about 75 they send you a flier: Please pick a cause of death from the list below.

So, what would the theorists say? Foucault is rolling in his grave,?pigeonholed?as an AIDS victim, the last declarative statement of his identity within a legal and medical system of labels. Baudrillard’s cause of death? The murder of his reality. Any other determination?is a hyperreality for those of us left behind?while he escapes into the ether. And Derrida??He’s haunting?Albany’s student ghetto as giant brain stripped of the assumptions of doom drawn from words like pancreatic cancer. I think I bumped into his ghost outside Valentine’s some years ago. Then again, maybe I just had one too many Jack and Cokes and was feeling a wee bit too brilliant.

That’s as deep as I intend to get today. The sun is calling and there are giant rocks to be rolled into position. (Gravity is my greatest tool.) I’ll be back when I’m not diligently concentrating on keeping my fingers… or soaking in the hot tub.?Is?having my life back?really as?decadent as it feels??I have become human once more.

I’m posting this for Michael and Elliot, who recently had me reminiscing about my encounter with black pudding and haggis. I dug through my old flight journal to retrieve this entry, going all the way back to…

June 25, 1999
My First Time in Brighton, UK
Photo caption: How many flight attendants fit in the loo of a 777?

Our crew reached the hotel at a million o?clock in the morning (Eastern Standard Time and otherwise). I had pulled a full shift on no sleep. Visions of a bed with fat pillows raged through my gray matter harder than any sweet sugarplum could. Even if the bed had stupid sheets with stupid paisley patterns in orange and purple to match the stupid curtains, I didn’t care. (There are some hotels that could benefit from the Interior Design Police.) Anything soft that allowed me to get vertical for several hours would suit me fine. It’s not like my eyes would be open long enough to vomit at the decor.

Unfortunately, our hotel wasn’t able to immediately accommodate the crew’s needs. Instead, the apologetic staff offered a three hour wait with a compensatory breakfast buffet. Great. I could eat myself into a food coma with nowhere to pass out.

As the herd of fourteen uniformed zombies gathered around the buffet trough, we half snored and half snorted at the food. I vaguely remember hearing, “Oh look! Black pudding, I’ll have to try that. Traditional English cuisine!”

Pudding can’t be bad, black or otherwise. I took a slab and placed it on my plate. A fellow zombie approached inquiring about the dark cake. Taking a small piece into my mouth, I swirled it around the full surface of my tongue. It was like soggy cardboard cooked in herbs and spices – but not. There was a hint of sweetness to it – but not. It wasn’t too rancid, but it most definitely was NOT good. It lingered over my taste buds like a thick fog. Fog? Frog. No, not frog…

Our International Service Manager appeared to my left, looked at my plate, and spouted, “You’re a brave soul.”

So I replied bravely, “I’ll try anything once.” Just then my sleepy eyes registered the many English folk around the buffet watching with anticipation. I finally asked, “Well, what IS it?”

My ISM, a fabulous prankster, whispered in my ear, “It’s deep fried cow’s blood.”
I laughed, albeit nervously. I felt a look of nearly-nauseous disbelief wash over my face. “You’re such a liar!”

His answer came in the form of a steadfast stare.

I scanned the crowd. Nods of agreement bobbed at me from every angle, reflected in the polished glass of the sneeze guard for double clarification.

“I JUST ATE DEEP FRIED COW’S BLOOD?”

Okay. So what. I didn’t die. I didn’t even puke. I was damn proud of that. I’ve eaten many a strange thing: octopus, squid, eel, oysters, a ham sandwich off a New York City sidewalk, but this was the cake topper.

As if I could prove my audience wrong, I smeared the slab with my fork. Soft, fleshy, red stuff streaked a dark, crimson smudge across my white plate. Not only was it NOT pudding, it wasn’t truly black. A fat clump of clot stuck to the fork.

Now I was ready to hurl. I recognized the residual taste, familiar, metallic, like when I last bit the inside of my cheek. I pictured eating a not-quite-hard scab. The loaf was the consistency of an hour old, coagulated, deep fried flesh wound.

My next move was to find something to mask the flavor. I moved down the buffet and pointed at another dish. I asked the nearest Brit, “What’s this?”

“Haggis.” His tone flashed a smidge of negativity.

“I can read the sign. What’s IN it?” Those nutty English. They turn out a few gems like Monty Python and Fawlty Towers and think they’re funny.

“It’s a Scottish (perhaps he said Irish) dish. It usually has lamb, oatmeal, herbs, spices.”

“Would you put it on your plate?”

“Uh, no.”

I opted for the sausage, eggs, and potatoes with little appetite. No amount of replacement food could erase the horrendous taste. Once we were finally assigned rooms, shots of mouthwash didn’t work either. I couldn’t sleep. I was assaulted by thoughts of some sacrificial, virgin cow being slaughtered to make a loaf of aneurysm.

I found this description from P.G. Wodehouse on Haggis at an internet cafe today:

The fact that I am not a haggis addict is probably due to my having read Shakespeare. It is the same with many Englishmen. There is no doubt that Shakespeare has rather put us off the stuff…. You remember the passage to which I refer? Macbeth happens upon the three witches while they are preparing the evening meal. They are dropping things into the cauldron and chanting “Eye of newt and toe of frog, wool of bat and tongue of dog,” and so on, and he immediately recognises the recipe. “How now, you secret, black and midnight haggis,” he cries shuddering.

This has caused misunderstandings and has done an injustice to haggis. Grim as it is, it is not as bad as that– or should not be. What the dish really consists of — or should consist of — is the more intimate parts of a sheep chopped up fine and blended with salt, pepper, nutmeg, onions, oatmeal, and beef suet. But it seems to me that there is a grave danger of the cook going all whimsy and deciding not to stop there. When you reflect that the haggis is served up with a sort of mackintosh round it, concealing its contents, you will readily see that the temptation to play a practical joke on the boys must be almost irresistible. Scotsmen have their merry moods, like all of us, and the thought must occasionally cross the cook’s mind that it would be no end of a lark to shove in a lot of newts and frogs and bats and dogs and then stand in the doorway watching the poor simps wade into them….

Note to self: Never ingest anything without knowing the full goddamn history of it first.

READING
To?wrap my head around a concept, I allow my?mind?full immersion. This is how I first?attempt understanding. Sometimes I let?it wash over me twice.?When?the final spin cycle stops,?I am pretty successfully brainwashed. So yes, at this stage I?am complicit in allowing theory to use?me.?I let it shape my view so I can better see what the theorist saw when composing their thoughts. Not to worry. This is a temporary state. My?mind tends to get dirty again fairly soon.

WRITING
Once brainwashed, I have a new lens with which to?view the world – with an entirely new, if not foreign, perspective.?At this stage, I no longer allow theory to?wag the dog. It’s fun to do Rubinesque readings of my wedding or draw parallels between a theorist and Star Trek villains. (I think I’m generally still dizzy from the spin cycle,?having?a good time?while high?on trace detergent.) This is the last chance to play with?free association?before getting down to business.?

CONVERSATION
I’m not interested in pulling this stuff out at cocktail parties, but I do find it difficult to refrain in my classes from connecting dots?between my classes,?picking and presenting?bits in Theory, Modern Poetry, Victorian Lit and Fiction Writing… I also like to?offer?tasty bites to my husband over coffee, saying things like, “Did you know that, as a lawyer,?you’re?part of the oppressive state apparatus? That is SO not cool.”

GROUP WORK
Placing class discussion under the category of group work, I find this most helpful in?discovering theoretical?contradictions or failings. My greatest problem is my inability to ask?good questions of the text, leaving me unable?to discover where?shortcomings lie until issues are brought up?in class or raised on blogs. I could be standing smack dab in the middle of a contradiction and still looking for it.

HOW TO REACH GREATER UNDERSTANDING
What I already do:
I have a variety of tricks to root myself more deeply in what I’m trying to learn. In Norton, the introduction is always helpful. I’ve also stuck my nose in Barry’s book. I do a quick search for “.edu” sites hosting additional info on the theorist too. In?all, I’ve?learned where theorists fit into the historical context, where their?main influence comes from, and how their ideas?impact the world.

What I’d like to do more of:
Commenting on classmates’ blogs after class discussion is?a far better?excercise of?my more complete knowledge, particularly since my own posts are generally half-formed ideas and tinkerings. I?will even go so far to say that I’d be willing to change gears, contrary to my original opinion, posting to my blog after the class discussion. Had we taken this approach from the start, it would have been helpful in pulling together the theory carnival. This way we wouldn’t be high fiving each other saying, “Yeah, I saw that too!” only to find that?our self-derived information was erroneous and spreading like a nasty virus.

In my Saussure post, I unfairly?present?my cat, Kringle, as a flesh eating monster.?I now?offer you?his?softer side, “Derrida Style.”?Decentralizing that singular murderous aspect, allowing for supplemental?information,?you can now?arrive at?a more accurate truth. Kringle actually has many sides. I can assure you that “centered” he is not. Enjoy!

This video has been?monitored?for Kitty Porn.

[googlevideo=http://video.google.com/googleplayer.swf?docId=1670222469463071964&hl=en]

I first decided to study English because, in high school, I was interested in little else. I would receive 100′s in the subject, particularly in the area of creative writing,?while history, math?and science were earning?less than mediocre marks. Naively, when it came to choosing a college major, I thought?English was an easy out, a cheat of sorts, something I had already “excelled” at.?(See the very naive Kim sitting at her “word processor” at SUNY Fredonia, October 1988.)

As an adult, I now realize that while I?enjoyed the escape of literature and?a creative use of language, this was no cheat. There was something intriguing within the pages beyond the story, something?worth paying attention to, and the call was real. I simply couldn’t identify it, nor did I stick with it long enough to discover what that call was. Still, it has lingered all these years, enough to make me consider revisiting?a formal English education?in my mid-thirties.

Most of my high school teachers sought to bring English to life with their selections. Tolkein’s The Hobbit, King’s?Different Seasons, and Mitchell’s Gone with the Wind were on our reading list. Still, when my peers groaned through?Beowulf and Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, I enjoyed them all. At the college level, I remember little and skipped often. There might be a correlation there.?Determined to get through the major without taking Shakespeare just to see if it was possible,?I was instead introduced, in depth, to Chaucer’s life, humor and influence on language. It was fascinating. It helped too that my professor was a bit crazy… a white-haired?woman never without her enormous, floppy,?purple?velvet hat. Through it all, theory was never discussed.

As a returning student, until last semester’s Intro to Lit class, I was unable to define what made literature worthy of study. I used to determine the worth of a book by how it made me feel and how it related to my life. This definition fell short when, as?varied as my life has been, a story was nothing like my own and yet I still found it?to be “good.” It wasn’t until I learned about abstract?thinking that I appreciated reading critically, interpreting, dialoging with the text and other critics.?Suddenly, I was moved beyond the mechanics of a story or the author’s history and into a world of contexts and meanings that came from beyond the text itself. With little experience in theory,?I have only had the opportunity to cover?Shakespeare’s The Tempest (he finally caught up?with me) and Morrison’s Beloved. I have?had a brief?overview of New Criticism, Postcolonialism, and Feminism.?My?limited experience with these “isms” introduced me to a whole new realm in which I still have much to learn.

Great.
Blogging.?
One more?addiction for?my OCD.

From?our?brief introductions in class, I’ll bet you know?my face?from the?graphic. Still, I’ve added some personal details about myself, appropriately?under “Behind the Blog.” Perhaps you can draw new associations?to me…?other than?my stories about high power airline toilets.

Until now, I have had very little contact with any religion outside of Christianity. I have been raised Catholic in a small town filled with mostly Catholics. I left the church after making my confirmation. Recently attending two ceremonies beyond my realm of knowledge, Friday prayer at the Muslim Mosque and the Hindu Festival of Shiva, I have found the exposure enjoyable and enlightening. Each experience merely scratched the surface of the deeper meaning it contained, but still, I felt intrigued with a growing curiosity.

My immediate reaction to Friday prayer at the mosque was surprise at the separation of the women from the men. Being an American woman, I took offense internally believing this to be sexual discrimination. Wanting to learn more, I respected their tradition and temporarily pushed my own feelings aside. I hung my coat and removed my shoes in the woman?s separate coat room. I took my place with the rest of the women behind a railing at the back of the room and waited for the ceremony to begin. I learned later that the men are required to attend public prayer while women have the option to attend or pray in private. It was difficult for me to believe when the speaker explained that the women prefer to be separate. My feathers were a bit less ruffled when I also learned that not all mosques are identical. In some, women pray on one side while men pray on the other rather than the women sitting at the back.

Prior to the ceremony I observed the men dressed in neutral, modest attire. The women?s attire was elaborately designed with American influence but still, it covered much of their bodies and heads. Modesty, whether decorative or not, is certainly regarded as the preferred method of dress. Hats and head coverings, if the meaning is similar to the Jewish tradition, may symbolize humility.

Waiting for the commencement of service, small boys leaned affectionately against their fathers and grandfathers as they sat patiently on the floor. A woman with both a small child and an infant sat beneath a sign asking mothers with children to observe the service from an alternate location. Women of all ages fawned over these children and seemed to pay no heed as the little girl danced around humming a song. This was obviously a community focused on family inclusion regardless of the initial exclusion I perceived.

All the people in attendance spent their time bowing, kneeling, and pressing their foreheads to the floor honoring God. They also incorporated hand gestures near their heads. These actions were somewhat similar to those in Catholicism, reminding me of genuflection and making the sign of the cross. Although I didn?t understand their true meaning, I understood that this was a way for the entire body, mind and spirit to align in prayer. This was never apparent in my own religious experience, but seeing the Muslims pray bridged that meaning for me for the first time.

The structure of the service wasn?t a far?cry from the Catholic services I have known. The prayers were carried out with a clear beginning, middle and end. As the speaker delivered his sermon, the message was clearly global. He spoke with disdain about the greed present in this world and honored work being done by two members of the mosque easing hunger for the poor. He encouraged others to get involved, stretching themselves beyond their community and reaching toward a grand scale of improvement for all. This was to be achieved peacefully as he was sure to add that one should lead by example and not confrontation.

Before and after the ceremony, we learned about the five pillars of Islam:
? Iman: Faith or belief in the Oneness of God and the finality of the prophethood of Muhammad;
? Salah: Establishment of the daily prayers;
? Zakah: Concern for and almsgiving to the needy;
? Sawm: Self-purification through fasting; and
? Hajj: The pilgrimage to Makkah for those who are able.
These pillars define not only the religion, but the structure of a Muslims day, week, and entire life. The level of devotion to uphold each pillar must be all consuming and, at the same time, comforting.

The Hindu Festival of Shiva was an entirely different experience. The sounds and smells assaulted my senses as I entered the temple?s atrium. The bells were constant and loud within the temple and a small group was chanting. The incense smelled lovely and I couldn?t wait to see what was happening behind the door. I removed my shoes and coat and entered the temple feeling slightly overwhelmed. The space was alive with an undeniable energy and it made my head swim. The colors were vibrant, including everything from the extravagant statues with many hands to the women?s beautiful sarees. This was an experience for the entire body.

Shortly after our arrival, a man named Shree gave us a tour of the temple. He explained that the Hindu religion is really a state of being, reminding me of the Muslim belief. This reaches beyond the notion of compartmentalizing religion, keeping it separate from every day life. It is what you live every minute of every day. While Shree tried to explain his religion to us, it was difficult for him to offer us anything to relate to. It was as if his religion was so engrained that he had a difficult time putting it into words.

As we came upon the statues of the gods, although it was explained time and time again that there is only one god, we were first introduced to Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva. We then made our way around the temple to all the other Hindu gods. As it was explained, each Hindu god is like a Catholic saint. Since God is too important to attend to every need, people pray to these ?specialty? gods for health or guidance in whatever direction they feel they need. I was most surprised, as I am finding much comfort in the book Start Where You Are by Buddhist nun, Pema Ch?dr?n, that Buddha is the smallest and least decorated statue in the temple. As it turns out, he is rarely recognized by the Hindu people anymore.

Shiva, for whom this festival is thrown, is the god of destruction. Without a negative connotation, the meaning is that he destroys to create. The tables were covered with offerings of food in his honor. When it was time to make the offerings, the bells rang out. Men held conch shells high in the air and blew high pitched calls through them. Milk, honey, orange juice and other foods were poured over the statue of Siva. I watched in amazement as people chanted and sang. The chants were ancient from Sanskrit writings and the prayer leader led the people through what to say. He seemed to have memorized every portion.

The rhythm of the ceremony ebbed and flowed, rising in energy as it proceeded. The prayer leader, without his bare chest, had broken a sweat. The room was getting warmer. This went on for some time until a curtain was drawn across Sivas room. Chanting continued but I couldn?t help wondering what was happening. This air of mystery during this part of the ceremony was as prevalent as that in the imagery of the gods with their multiple hands and animal heads.

When the curtain was opened, the statue of Siva was adorned in beautiful flowers and fruit. The display was impressive. At this time, several bowls of a creamy substance were passed around. The cream seemed to be made from a mixture of the offerings. It was orange and sweet smelling. People dipped their fingers into the bowl and wiped some of the waxy mixture on their foreheads. Perhaps it was meant to symbolize the eye of god, much like the red dots the women wear on their foreheads. One man explained that nothing went to waste here.

Cash offerings were made as a plate was passed around. The plate itself held a burning flame. People waved their hands over it directing it?s energy toward their faces. It appeared as if they were receiving a blessing and I believe the candle was part of the offering ceremony just as the bowl of the creamy substance was.

After the ceremony, I stayed to watch the young children perform songs and dance. The dress was elaborate and the dance mysterious. One young girl stole the show with her rolling eyes and odd hand motions. Her movement exemplified what the statues would look like if they were to come alive with motion.

I found these experiences widely different from each other in practice. The Friday prayer service at the mosque was much more rigid than the Hindu Siva Festival. Muslim practice is structured with the tools of time, dress, and repetition while the Hindu ceremony ran on ?temple time,? following the flow of the room and the mood of the people. There was a freedom of motion and participation not found in the mosque. The Hindu temple was animated and exciting while the Temple was quietly serene and reverent. I enjoyed from both the noise and the quiet, the soft colors and the vibrant, the formality and the fluidity.

Washington Park stirs with signs of life this morning. Along the green lawn of the dog park, a towering wall of weeping cherry trees beckons me with long, flowing branches. I sense their burden as they bow deeply under the weight of prolific and cascading pale-pink tears. Entering deeper into the park, I encounter a stand of embittered crabapples. Why do they resist the dawn of spring, allowing no more exposure of their crimson petals than a narrow slit? Each bud looks wounded.

At the bone-dry fountain hundreds of tulips stand at attention encircling its statue of Moses. His staff has been stolen by vandals. The tulips before him shroud their pastel petals with thick green hoods, hesitant to open themselves to him. Perhaps they know that he has failed to deliver the Ten Commandments. Only the fiery orange tulips in the outer garden stretch their showy heads beyond Moses and toward the sky. I join them and follow suit. The sun, in an instant, permeates the chill and warms my face. Through the slit of one eyelid, I see the silver glint of an airplane flash against the deep blue sky.

I have not returned to this place since September 11, 2001, yet that day never feels far behind. I remember so vividly how I drove from Albany toward New York at five o?clock in the morning. As the sun rose, the golden fog had spun itself like cotton between pockets of pines. Enamored with the beauty of that particular dawn, I searched for the camera I had carelessly left on the kitchen counter. I sputtered aloud some poetic lines to capture what I saw, but found that even my best effort fell short.

FAA training took place over the span of two days every September, the 2001 session being the fourth anniversary of my hire date as a flight attendant. Normally I would grumble through the rigors of testing, but that morning I was glad to have been witness to the beauty of daybreak. I attempted to review first aid, evacuation, weapons identification and hijacking procedures along my drive, but by the time I reached the skyline, I was again distracted by beauty. The humidity that had softened silhouettes earlier had given way to a crisp, bright landscape. The entire city was gilded in sunlight, every detail razor sharp. I wanted to capture that view, cursing myself again for forgetting my camera. I took the scene in one last time before entering the training facility across the river from the World Trade Center.

Five minutes after I entered the building, the first plane struck the tower. The flight attendants who were lounging about the commons waiting for class to begin congealed into a gawking mass of slack-lipped witnesses. I joined in. As we thrust our faces against the window in disbelief, the second plane reinforced, with cruel clarity, the tragedy before us. Our only news buzzed in Spanish through the snowy reception of UHF. A limited translation amounted to suicide bombers, being under attack, and the grounding of all aircraft. As fellow flight attendants called parents trapped in the towers, some said their last good-byes watching as people began to jump. I ran outside, desperate to escape the horror, only to enter the parking garage in time to face the first tower collapse.

Military aircraft swarmed close over my head. Was it the U.S.? Was it ?them?? I couldn?t see. I feared another strike and crouched behind a green pick-up truck. There I hugged my knees and rocked myself alone crying ?Oh my God. Oh my God.? Unable to hold back the grief, my heart split. Unintelligibly, my horror spilled forth.

Gaining my wits, I found my car and drove back toward Albany, away from the hideous pillars of smoke. People impatient with the crowded highways sped past me on the shoulder of the road. I shrieked foul words waving my arms at nobody in particular. Distracted, I missed my turn. I had to look back toward the smoldering remains of 3,000 people, the second tower having collapsed.

As I drove West, Howard Stern clamored for war. I jammed my finger into a random button changing the frequency to something soothing. The further I drove, the more traffic thinned, making way to clearer roads. Officers in u-turn areas watched for typical speeders. In Albany, two people laughed on the corner of Madison and Pearl. I was infuriated. Didn?t they know? Hadn?t they seen? The announcer said the attack had happened four hours prior. How could that be? Trapped within a moment, time was marching on without me.

I met a friend here in Washington Park. It seemed appropriate having been a former burial ground. We sat reverent on the grass. Fractured thoughts flooded my conversation. ?How can I wear my stripes now? How am I supposed to protect my passengers from suicide bombers? I wish my father would return my message. Will I be fired if I can?t bring myself to fly??

Before me was the Corning Tower of Empire Plaza, a citadel bathed in sunlight, emerging from the tree line. How it stood, in the wake of what I had seen, defied my disintegrated logic. If lines could be drawn from the odd angle of the tower?s outer walls, they would merge where I sat. I remember sensing the geometric order and yet it offered me no comfort. What was the point?

On Willet Street now, the view of the park is spectacular. I looked for a brownstone apartment here once, just a few months prior to the attack. After the attack, the closest I came was a carriage house out back where I spent an hour at three o?clock every Thursday. There I attempted to piece together my shattered identity with Diane. She was a psychologist who had volunteered her service to those New York Police and Fireman suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. She said she could help me to sleep, to move forward, and having taken a company offered leave for the next year, to explore what to do next.

I lived nearby on State Street then, number 332. Passing now, I see my old living room window looking out at Picotte Hall. I remember an earthquake rattling the foundation there that November. My ivory sheers have been replaced by red velvet drapes shut tight against the light. Across the street, I see ghosts of old friends who have moved away from number 335. The neighboring 334 is dark. The man who lived here was one of the ?dust people? escaping the tower. He and his wife had just bought the building to create their dream home, yet it went up for sale in early 2002. I wonder where they are now; the homeless man too, who used to smile and call me ?Fifth Avenue.? I hope he survived the winter. I used to give him gloves to fend off the cold. This damp, stone stoop remains unchanged except for a few planters. It always stood in shadow, no matter the season or time of day. Further down State Street, across from the Capital Building, the police continue to stand guard at Empire Plaza. They are lasting remnants of protective measures stemming from impotent arsenic threats to the governor.

I have moved five times since that address, downsizing along the way. I have held a number of jobs as well, from farming knee-deep in chicken feces and doing freelance publicity, to the part time designing of GUI systems for the United States Office of Management and Budget. I did what it took to pay rent, resorting to the trade of my new dining suite and antique sewing machine when necessary. I?ve learned that I?m adaptive and resilient, but that lesson came with the high price of all that I had and all that I was.

This neighborhood has new memories for me now, not tainted by September 11th. At the corner of State and Dove is where my fianc? and I first kissed three years ago. He stood over six feet at street level and I hopped up on the curb to reach his lips. We threw our heads back and laughed in the soft glow of the street lamp as a lone electric guitar from a window above played Jimmy Hendrix. I have to leave this reverie now to meet Tim. We?re choosing our wedding bands today.

Back in Washington Park stands a statue of Robert Burns. Engraved in its base is part of his Epistle to Dr. Blacklock:

To make a happy fireside climb
To weans and wife
That?s the true pathos and sublime
Of human life

At the picnic table where I used to sit alone with my journal, a family of five enjoys a picnic lunch. Across the street, two daycare women push triplet strollers carting six beautiful children. A young boy and his pup enjoy the otherwise empty dog park, running in circles to and fro. These children are evidence of connection; evidence that this sublime human life is among us, within us.

I note the hour. Time has marched on, and now, I march with it.